The cartoon Satanism of Ozzy Osbourne and Alice Cooper wasn’t for me, and neither was the louche wimpiness of a James Taylor or a Jackson Browne. Radio was integrated in those days, and I liked Marvin Gaye and Isaac Hayes’s hits, but their frankly adult sexuality was beyond me. (I’m still mildly scandalized by Mr. Gaye’s “You Sure Love to Ball.”) Elton John’s records were among my favorites, and I appreciated his camp showmanship, but that wasn’t aspirational, at least not for me.
Continue Reading on New York Times
This preview shows approximately 15% of the article. Read the full story on the publisher's website to support quality journalism.